


The Peace of Moving On

by lucymaybelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Back to Hogwarts, Christmas, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, For real this time?, Getting Back Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Memories, POV Harry Potter, Professor Harry Potter, Sex, Snow, breaking up?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymaybelle/pseuds/lucymaybelle
Summary: Harry Potter has never been quite good at coming to terms with endings. Hoping that searching through remnants of their past will offer some closure, or at the very least, answers, he relives some of the most heartbreaking and important landmarks in his relationship with Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	1. Prologue

**The Sitting Room**

There were boxes everywhere.

Harry surveyed the room, memories scattered about, the last vestiges of a relationship seven years in the making. It appeared as though his entire life had been reduced to rubble and ash, the contents of his memory splayed haphazardly across the floor and sofa.

He sorted through stacks of photographs and trinkets, each of them a vision of what no longer was. Tired eyes watched as younger versions of himself waved happily up at him. He attempted a feeble smile back, wishing desperately to be back in that little cottage in Cornwall, or flying above lavender fields in Hampshire.

Shutting his eyes for a second, Harry allowed himself to embrace the exhaustion he’d been feeling for the past month. If there was a way to go back, barring an elicit time-turner, he’s certain he’d give almost anything.

His fingers found a picture of one October years ago, fingerprints marring the perfect gloss of the photo - and that was fitting wasn’t it? That was their beginning, all tentative kisses and tangled limbs. Recollections of learning curves, raw nerves, and whispered half-apologies overwhelmed his senses. It all seemed worth fighting for then. And wasn’t it still, even now that the veneer had worn off, the shine dulled with age?

What happened to the people in those pictures who couldn’t get enough of each other? Who wore cheeky grins and tousled hair? Who teased mercilessly, but loved and defended even harder? It seemed to him he was the same, but The Old Harry would never have sat idly by as the man he loved packed up their life and moved on. The Old Harry wasn’t weighed down by the monotony and obligation of daily life… But was that how he’d come to view their relationship as well?

He continued to search through the mementos, hoping for answers.


	2. The Hampstead House

**The Hampstead House**

The little brick house on the outskirts of London was only a speck in the swirling snow. Outside, a blanket of calm swept over the street, a deep quiet only snow can bring. Inside, the housemates huddled near the fireplace, sipping hot chocolate and firewhiskey. They watched the flurries dance from a living room bathed in the glow of embers.

The previous afternoon, they’d all strung multicoloured lights round the roof and windows of the cottage. Their cottage. Careful no one was watching nearby, Hermione added the finishing touches with a flourish of her wand. Bundled up to their noses in scarves and winter coats, they stood back to admire their work. Harry thought it looked as beautiful as any painting he’d ever seen. Luna and Hermione had gone to painstaking lengths to fill the cottage with delicious scents, floating candles, tinsel, and a tree fit for a king. Harry felt deliriously grateful.

However, the holidays always seemed to leave Harry in a state of limbo; it seemed he felt simultaneously closer to and farther from the people he’d lost. He couldn’t help but let his thoughts stray toward a sort of fantasy life he’d created. He imagined a gathering around a holiday table, his family doing even the most heartbreakingly simple of things. In this world, he’d invented small quirks for them: James’ obsession with holiday tchotchkes, Lupin’s eternal pursuit of the perfect Bakewell tart, Sirius’ off-key rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs” at the top of his voice (this fondly extracted from reality). His mind grasped at wisps of memory, real or imagined, it didn’t matter. It was strange, Harry thought, experiencing longing for and comfort in things he’d never had. And instead of the typical admonition with which he usually met his grief and longing, Harry indulged himself in this world. In doing so, he often found himself lying at the bottom of the tree, looking over the detail of each ornament with a bittersweet pang in his heart.

On this particular night, Draco had joined him at the bottom of the tree. He’d crept downstairs almost silently and sat down at Harry’s side.

“I know you like this time to think, but I wasn’t sure if you might want some company,” Draco whispers and scoots closer, warmth radiating.

“Sure. Of course. But I can’t promise I’m much fun right now.” Harry looks down at the ornament in his hand, thumb skimming the delicate designs.

“Please, Potter, when are you ever fun?” Draco sits up a little taller. “It’s obvious that when people think of holiday merriment, they think of yours truly.”

Harry snorts. Draco chooses to ignore this.

“What do you come down here to think about?” he asks benignly, his voice bleeding into a curious silence. Harry isn’t certain how an innocent query could feel so personal… but it does.

“It’s nothing really,” he mutters, busying himself with the sleeve of Draco’s holiday jumper: Green with silver snitches. “I do like you at Christmastime,” he teases.

“Mm. I’m truly at my best at Yuletide,” Draco agrees, briefly allowing this feeble attempt at a deflection. He reaches for Harry, carding his fingers through messy black hair.“But just so you know… I think about my family too. Especially at night. Especially when it’s quiet.” He plants a soft kiss on Harry’s forehead.

Overwhelmed, a lump settles in his throat. These glimpses of tenderness are starting to become more common of late, and his heart welcomes them with a startling readiness.

Harry wonders what it might be like to live in a world where he could have introduced Draco to his family. He no longer wonders if they’d be proud so much as accepting. He likes to think they’d understand what he sees in Draco, likes to think they could see past the hardened exterior. He could get lost in this world - a fantasy of love without loss - but Draco’s soft touch and the crackle of the fire keep them tethered to reality. Perhaps if they hadn’t lost so much, they’d never have had the opportunity to understand each other in this way.

“I love you,” Harry whispers. It’s the first time.

And then the house is quiet.


	3. The Attic

**The Attic**

“My father is… he’s not well.” Draco’s voice is raspy, pain evident in his face. His arms are hugged tight around his knees. 

“What do you mean?” Harry moves closer and stirs up a small flurry of dust. “What is it?”

“The healers… they don’t know. It could be a sort of blood malediction, but there’s a probability it’s a curse. It’s a waiting game right now and it makes me feel like I want to crawl out of my skin.”

A raw pang of empathy courses through Harry, though he isn’t quite sure what to say. Torn between strange relief and indignation, Harry fights the desire to ask why Draco hadn’t come to him sooner, why he’d pushed him away. But he remembers all too well what it is to feel helpless, waiting for the right time, waiting while the people you care for suffer. Harry considers what _he_ might have liked to hear in those moments of anguish. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, hoping it’s the right thing, knowing it falls woefully short. 

“It’s just that… when someone is ill, it’s impossible not to pay attention to every detail of their lives. You analyze the way they look and sound, their sleeping and eating patterns. You catalogue every change, every nuance.

“I just want it to stop. And the timing of it all- I’m supposed to be enjoying our new flat.” Draco sounds exasperated and rubs at his brow with two fingers. “I want to be here with you. This is our own house, and I can’t just… be here.”

“Draco. I don’t think it’s a matter of one or the other. You can be here when you’re ready, but it’s okay if you’re not. You have to give this the attention it deserves.” Harry wants to stop the world for him, wants to be a rock for him to cling to. But rocks can be slippery, and he knows Draco still sometimes sees the danger in reliance, in trust. Harry grabs his arms, holding him steady, telling him silently he’s not going anywhere.

“I wanted to tell you, I think... If for no other reason than I’ve got to accept what’s happening. I’ve never been very good at that, you’ll recall.” Draco smiles weakly, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Harry knows he’s alluding to the fight they’d both put up when it came to just being together. Meeting in secret to kiss and touch and feel had been one thing, accepting it was a _relationship_ had been another. Draco had been the last to stop running. 

“I wish there was something I could do,” Harry says softly, feeling suffocated by the warmth of the small attic and the candles’ gentle glow. The air hangs heavy between them, splintered with feelings that have no business being there. _I want to save you_ hangs on his lips, but he won’t let it escape. 

“Just please don’t tell anyone,” Draco pleads. “I’m not ready to talk about this. I’m not sure I know how.” 

“Of course.” 

Grief was an interesting thing, he thought, drawing parallels between confident Draco and grieving Draco, alike and dissimilar at once. He could see the battle between caring too much and not at all waging war across his features, though this wasn’t something new - just different.

“It’s so odd, I’ve started thinking about the past a lot. I remember all of these things I hadn’t thought about for years. Sometimes I even dream about them. I have one where my father talks to me about choices, how he would be proud of me no matter what I choose, which path I take. I think it was true then, whatever he was talking about... But at some point, it changed.” Draco looks small and lost and his voice cracks. 

Harry knows what it is to have a complicated relationship with a father; his own had proven to him that people could behave in shades of gray and still be good. Lucius, of course, had gone beyond the realm of gray behaviour, but he’d tried to do the right thing in the end.

“I was thinking I would study potions, or maybe healing. I can’t- I’ve got to find a way to help.” Draco sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Even if it’s not my father, it should be someone. Reparations should be made.” His face hardens as he says this, as though he’s accepted this fate.

Harry has to stop himself from shuddering as Draco’s words ring in his ears. All he can hear in his voice is Lucius Malfoy - cold, cutting, clear.

“Reparations? Draco, if you’re going to be a healer because you want to help, that’s fine... but because ‘reparations should be made’? You can’t possibly think-”

“I wasn’t aware you were the gatekeeper of my thoughts,” Draco interrupts. “And while you may have given your royal pardon, Potter, maybe the rest of the world isn’t so keen to see me as anything more than a death eater disgrace. It will be even worse for my father, and you’re a fool if you think otherwise. We’ll be lucky if anyone decides they even want to touch our case.”

Harry doesn’t try to stop him as he leaves.

He realizes with jarring clarity he hasn’t considered the implications Lucius’ past might have on receiving treatment. He hasn’t had to; Draco has shouldered this burden entirely alone. The thought makes him ache to his bones.

xxx

When Harry pads downstairs, he does so cautiously; the silence in their flat feels fragile. He finds Draco at the kitchen table, head in his hands, tea too saturated with cream. Harry sets to work making a new one without asking - this much he can do.

When the cuppa is ready, he slides it over to Draco, steam swirling up in thick clouds.

“Tea and sympathy?” Harry offers, voice thick with worry.

“You know I didn’t mean it,” Draco utters, not looking up.

“It doesn’t matter if you did. It’s my own fault I hadn’t thought about how things might be for your family. We don’t really talk about them, and it’s not an excuse, I just… I hope you’ll let me be a part of this. I’ll make sure the healers, or alchemists, or whoever it is we’re working with are fair. I’ll make sure we can trust them.

“I know I never say the right thing, but I’ll do everything I can. You’re my family.” This is Harry Potter at his most earnest. He will do anything for this man, and that much he knows.

Draco looks up at him, eyes bright and blazing. Seconds later, his hands and body are everywhere, pinning Harry against the wall, claiming every inch of his neck with his lips. Their kisses are fevered, all definitions of ache apparent in their movements.

And then they’re in the bedroom, jumpers pulled over heads, trousers and pants slipped roughly over hips. Groaning and flushed with arousal, Harry arches toward Draco, pressing their bodies together. Their motions are firm, promises made with every gasp, every breath.

“You’re good, Draco. You’re so good,” Harry whispers into Draco’s hair, pulling him down onto the bed. Their bed. He isn’t sure why he says it, he just does. 

They move together then, Draco sinking slick fingers wordlessly into Harry, preparing him. Harry mewls and pushes back against Draco’s ministrations. It seems unfair to him that he should be the one receiving all of the attention when Draco had been laid so bare, but he lets him take what he needs. 

“I’m ready, love,” he breathes and pulls Draco up to meet him, pressing their foreheads together as Draco sheaths himself with a moan. Tears form at the corners of Draco’s eyes, and he wipes them away, whispering comfort.

As Draco’s movements become more erratic, he reaches down, stroking Harry to release and finding it himself. They lay together in the aftermath, something less common of late, sleepily exploring each other’s bodies and lips.

“You know, I think you’d make a brilliant healer,” he whispers into the dark.

This time, Harry is certain he’s said the right thing as strong arms pull him in close.


	4. The Concert Ticket

**The Concert Ticket**

The music is loud, and Harry is stoned.

They are young and they are reckless and they are dancing and dancing. It’s the best he’s felt in so many years, and he’s spinning around, wrapped up in a stranger’s arms. He doesn’t know this woman, but she smells good - like incense - and they’re laughing and twirling. He doesn’t know this band either, but it feels good to be lost in their music, and there’s something like excitement pooling in his belly. The woman runs back to her friends, thanking him for the dance, and he sends her off with a lopsided grin. 

Luna, Dean, and Seamus are scattered about somewhere, and Harry vaguely wonders if he should look for them. Deciding against it, continuing to swim in the colors and sounds, he makes his way towards a back wall to find purchase. He’s content watching others dance, and sways along himself, feeling only slightly fuzzy.

And then he sees him. 

Clear as day in his hazy vision is Draco Malfoy, also propped up against a wall and smirking. Harry hasn’t seen him since the trials, and he looks so different. It’s obvious he’s already been spotted, judging by the look of sheer… well, he can’t fully put his finger on whatever is playing across Malfoy’s face. Carried by the vibrations of the music and the sentiment of _In for a Sickle, in for a Galleon_ , he makes his way over.

Struggling through the crowd and certain he looks even less graceful than he feels, he arrives at Draco’s station. 

“So, you actually listen to music?” Harry strikes first, but it’s a hopeless shot at recovering any dignity because he tries to stifle a grin and probably just looks confused. 

“What an odd question. You’re high as a kite, Potter,” Draco assesses, frowning and giving him the once-over.

“Only a little. Funny to see you here,” Harry says, though not unkindly. “This doesn’t really strike me as the sort of place you’d want to be seen.” He gestures behind him to the black walls and smoke and Persian rugs. The venue itself seems to be the very antithesis of Draco Malfoy.

“And you would be right. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew, let alone _you,_ ” Malfoy admits, though sounding slightly amused. “But it seems you’re without your usual entourage. Where’s the Weaslette?”

Judging from the lack of sting this question begets, Harry thinks he must be over it. He and Ginny wouldn’t have worked; he’s known it all along if he’s honest. “I wouldn’t know,” is all he offers, and Draco seems to get his meaning.

“My apologies,” Draco mutters, but doesn’t appear sorry in the least. 

“Right. So this is what you do for fun? You come to muggle concerts hoping no one recognizes you, judging people for some light recreational drug use, wearing... leather trousers? Malfoy, you’re wearing leather trousers.” Harry laughs at this, eyes wide and roving over Draco’s body. Honestly, he looks quite fit, and it makes Harry laugh harder. He has to fight the urge to reach out and touch them.

“What the fuck, Potter?” Malfoy sneers, cheeks darkening, and moving to get away.

“No, no, stay.” Harry grabs him by the wrist, pulling Malfoy back towards him. “Dance.” 

Harry can see the Mark, now surrounded by something which looks like runes and flora in the low light. He can also see that the Mark is now a part of a larger piece that continues up Malfoy’s arm. Harry wants to pull him closer, to examine, but something tells him to respect whatever sort of boundary might exist there. Malfoy takes his arm back quickly and rubs at his wrist.

They’re standing very close together now, and Malfoy is eyeing him carefully. The band begins a blazing Florence and the Machine cover, and the energy and magic are palpable.

“You really should get someone to take you home,” Malfoy scolds, though he sounds resigned to the absurdity of the scenario. 

“Are you offering?” _In for a Galleon.._. Harry mentally shrugs, and moves even closer. From here, he can see a small smattering of freckles on the bridge of Malfoy’s nose. It also occurs to him that he has probably never been this close before. 

“I - Certainly not,” Draco fumbles, tensing. He places an experimental hand on Harry’s chest, half-heartedly keeping him at a distance. “When have I ever given any indication-”

“Just a question,” Harry interrupts, smirking. “You know, I really wasn’t making fun of your leather trousers, Malfoy. You should probably wear them more often.”

With that, he walks away, feeling more confident than he probably should, but also revelling in the ability to ruffle Draco Malfoy’s sharply pressed feathers. He winces a little as he realizes he’s half-hard, but doesn’t bother to check in with what that might mean; Malfoy’s always been able to get under his skin.

xxx

The owl arrives several days later: 

_There’s a show over on Valette this weekend._

Harry pockets the letter, knowing full well he should not go... knowing full well he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never let go of Draco Malfoy in leather trousers.


	5. Cottages & Coastal Light

**Cottages & Coastal Light**

They’ve done this before, but not like this.

They’ve kissed too many times to count. In stairwells and bathrooms, under street lamps, and in pubs. Harry thinks he may have kissed Draco on every visible stretch of his skin, covering him like a fever. But this, this feels different. They’ve never done it like this - never in a bedroom, never so nervously and tenderly. Their hands are moving slowly, their eyes are closed, and Harry’s heartbeat hammers loud in time to the small noises they’re making.

Harry’s always been taken by the rush that comes with the meeting of their lips, but the butterflies in his stomach seemed to have moved to his chest. He’s not sure what’s changed, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

They’ve escaped the city for the weekend together at a cabin on the coast. Draco had mentioned it casually, as though Potter could join him if he liked, or not. Though if Harry is honest, he wants it to be a more serious invitation - he wants Draco to want him there with every fibre of his being. He wants Draco to want like he does. He tries to send this message telepathically, moving with _meaning_ , conveying a longing that can only be for a person who’s right in front of you, but never close _enough_. He traces the lines on Draco’s chest, written some eight years ago by his own magic. They never talk about them. All of a sudden, Harry wants to, and he says as much.

“No,” Draco responds sharply, implying he should not be pressed further. 

But Harry’s never been one for following these rules and continues to push on. “We should, you know. We never talk about anything,” he mouths against Draco’s neck.

“Christ, Potter, there’s plenty of time for that later. I’m fairly certain we didn’t come here just to _talk,_ ” Malfoy bristles, leaning into Harry.

“What did we come here for then? Just to keep sneaking around?” 

Draco stills, leans back, and frowns. “What’s the matter with you?” His face is marked by annoyance, but he twitches in the way he does when he’s nervous.

“Is this something, Draco?” Harry asks finally. “You and me?”

“What? Potter, you’re daft,” Draco says, looking away suddenly. Harry’s cheeks burn and his chest tightens.

“Fine. Maybe I am, but it doesn’t change the fact we’ve been skirting around this for months. I want to know. This isn’t a game.” Harry is defiant, eyes piercing, willing Malfoy to just _look_ at him. 

He waits. And waits.

“Harry. You’re daft if you think I would waste my time on something that wasn’t, to use your word, _something._ ” Draco finally meets his eyes, his own questioning and soft in the dark.

The relief swells in Harry’s body, through his veins, down to his bones. Overwhelmed, he clings to Draco. It feels as though he’s just run a marathon, breath coming quick and jagged.

“Come here,” Draco growls and pulls Harry tighter. They crash together, a frenzy of lips and tongues and hands. Heat building between them, Harry begins to work Draco’s remaining shirt buttons, meeting his gaze for reassurance with every movement.

Harry knows what this means. This is more than just hiding in shadows, more than just lust - though Harry can admit that’s what he's feeling primarily right now. He wants to cover every inch of Draco’s body, make him feel so good and so certain there will be no questions left to ask.

Harry works his way down Draco’s chest, slipping fingers into belt loops, stopping to plant gentle kisses on his face. And now it’s almost like being underwater; he’s moving through space slowly, dreamily. 

And then their clothes are gone and they’re lying together, taking each other in inch-by-inch. Draco is the first to move, crawling on top of Harry and reaching between them. This time though, they don’t bring each other off with their hands or mouths. This time, Draco straddles Harry, taking him in slowly and deeply. Nods and whispers of encouragement urge him on, keep his hips moving in a gentle, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you feel so good, Draco,” Harry breathes, licking and biting to punctuate his thrusts. This is a different kind of desperation, one that he hasn’t known before.

Sooner than he’d like, Harry finds his release inside of Draco, watching his face carefully, eyes searching. It’s his first time with another man, and in the afterglow he half-mourns the wasted time before he’d known what this was like.

In the morning, the coastal light gently shines in through cracks in the shutters, painting their bodies in stripes of soft light. Harry’s sleepy eyes take in Draco’s resting form, untouched by worry. He wants to reach out and brush the hair off of Draco’s forehead but stops himself. His heart swells, his stomach swoops, and he knows he is far too gone to turn back. He wants to preserve this moment, hopeful there will be many, many more.

“So. We’ve probably got to stop lying to our friends, then,” comes Draco’s hoarse whisper, eyes still closed.

“Good morning to you too,” Harry half-laughs, fighting back the fear that this will undoubtedly turn everything on its head.

Draco opens one eye.

“You’re nervous,” he says, blinking. “You shouldn’t be. You’re Harry Potter, you can do anything you want.”

“Must you ruin everything?” Harry sighs, and rolls over on top of him.


	6. A Lovegood Wedding

**A Lovegood Wedding** ****

Luna’s was the most recent wedding Harry and Draco had attended together.

Luna had asked Harry to be her Man of Honor, a title which he’d enthusiastically accepted and secretly thrilled over. Though he’d offered to wear a flower crown like the other bridesmaids, Luna had crafted him a long garland of asters, edelweiss, and myrtle to wear over his shoulders. It was perfect.

Draco had been nervous and edgy in the weeks beforehand, and Harry had chalked it up to the nerves of yet another wedding in their circle of friends.

“Isn’t this great, Draco?” Harry asked, bubbling over with the energy and zeal of a bridesman who’d had too much sugar, champagne, and excitement for one afternoon. “What do you think about something like this?”

“It’s, er, nice enough. Luna looks lovely. The Scamanders are an interesting bunch, Granger seems quite taken with the lot.”

“I’m sure they’re fascinated with her plans for the future of elvish welfare,” he laughed. Feeling brave, he continued on with: “What do you think about something like this… for us?” 

“For us? A wedding? Potter, I’m not… I’m not certain I’d really want something like this, no.” Draco looked flushed and guilty, but his expression was resolute.

Harry felt absolutely shattered. While he knew that Draco wasn’t one to rush into any sort of commitment, he had never really imagined a scenario in which there was no promise of a future.

“I don’t understand,” Harry uttered. “I sort of thought that was where we were headed. It’s been four years.”

“Look, it’s not that it’s not a lovely idea. I’m just not sure that I’ve ever seen myself as someone who gets married. To anyone. Isn’t our being together enough? Can’t we be committed to each other without all of _this_?” Draco was talking fast, gesturing at the grand floral displays, faerie lights, and candles. Harry thought it was beautiful and whimsical, though perhaps not his own taste. Moreover, he recognized the importance of this day and the commitment that Luna and Rolf were making to one another. He’d always thought… He supposed it didn’t matter what he’d always thought if Draco wasn’t of the same mind.

Witnessing the hurt in Harry’s expression, Draco attempted to reach over and take his hand. Without thinking, Harry recoiled and stared at the ground. He wanted to leave himself, but he couldn't do that to Luna - Gryffindor loyalty and all that. _Draco could use some of that,_ he thought bitterly.

“I think maybe you should leave then, Draco. I know you don’t want to be here anyway.” Harry’s voice came icy and firm, though his insides felt shaky.

“What are you talking about? They haven’t even done toasts yet. I was-” Draco was silenced with a burning look from Harry. He stood up and straightened his collar. “Very well, if you’re certain. Give Luna my best then.”

Harry watched him walk off to the apparition point, fighting back the sting in his eyes and throat. Harry knew what it meant when Draco didn’t bother arguing: It was a concession now that would lead to a massive explosion later. It didn’t matter though, Harry would rather watch his retreating back than face whatever he might have to say had he stayed.

Quickly pulling himself together and searching for the champagne-fueled levity of just a few moments earlier, Harry forced himself to approximate cheerfulness until he actually felt it. Mentally preparing the excuse he would give for Draco’s absence, he bustled off to rejoin the party.

Eventually, he’d consumed enough alcohol that he was able to enjoy the reception, pushing all thoughts of Draco and their non-wedding from his mind. He danced with Luna and Xenophilius, the two of them attempting to teach him the Madagascan Quarter-Step, a flailing, spinning sort of motion that made him dizzy and sent him into fits of laughter. He clinked his glass and cheered to good health, longevity, and magizoology. Out of forgetfulness and force of habit, he only turned to tell Draco something once or twice. 

At some point late in the night, he found himself entangled in conversation with a very handsome man whose name escaped him. He smelled a bit like whiskey and campfire, and under different circumstances, Harry might have been quite smitten. And yet, when propositioned with a kiss on the cheek and a “Back to mine, then?” Harry shook his head apologetically.

“Sorry, I- I’ve got someone at home,” he stammered. “I hope,” he added under his breath.

“Lucky for them,” came the disappointed sigh Harry could hardly hear over a Lovegood rendition of “The Parting Glass” sending guests on their way. 

xxx

When Harry arrives home, it is pouring. He doesn’t bother taking the Floo, opting for a more dramatic, traditional entrance. Draco is sitting on the sofa reading the Daily Prophet. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door slam.

“Is there an article in there about what to do when everything is bullshit and your life is a lie?” Harry rages, demanding acknowledgement.

Stifling a small smile, Draco looks at him over the top of the paper. “Unfortunately, no,” he says tightly. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out though.”

Harry can tell he’s holding back laughter and it makes him even angrier.

“I almost went home with someone last night, you know. I really had to think about it,” he lies. 

He’s soaking wet and dripping puddles into the entryway, furious he hadn’t so much as heard from Draco since yesterday. He’d spent the night at Ron and Hermione’s clearing his head, trying to understand why he felt so hurt. 

“Did you? Would that have made you feel better?” Draco queries. He doesn’t seem quite upset, but he also doesn’t bother to get up.

“Probably.” 

“So why didn’t you?”

“What kind of a fucking question is that? What do you mean why didn’t I? Because I fucking love you! Are you serious?” Harry knows he’s being too dramatic, too crass, but he doesn’t care.

“I think you’re upset because I’m not acting jealous,” Draco says seriously, folding the paper and standing. 

“Well then why aren’t you jealous?” Harry half-shouts, wishing that Draco would get close enough to him so he could wreck his stupid facade. He’d wrap his wet hands in that perfectly coiffed silver hair and-

“Harry, I love you.” Harry stills; Draco is careful with the distribution of this sentiment. “If you want to be with someone else more than me, someone who can give you what you want, I can only be grateful for the time you’ve already given to me. I am deeply committed to you, but I won’t hold you hostage. You can make up your own mind about sleeping with someone else, and I trust you to make the right decision. I trust you in general.” He crosses the room, puts a soft palm to Harry’s face, and sweeps the wet hair from his forehead.

“I would never sleep with someone else,” Harry mutters, undone by this simple act of affection. “I would never do that. It would never make me feel better. Why do you have to be such a bastard?”

“You can’t say you didn’t know what you were getting into.” Draco leans in to kiss him, and Harry pulls back. 

“Will you at least tell me why you think getting married is bad, or stupid, or whatever? Don’t I sort of deserve to know that at least? Is it something I’ve done?”

“Potter, what?” Draco rubs his temples, recognizing he is no longer absolved of his behavior. “It’s nothing you’ve done at all. I just- It’s hard for me to describe, but there was a time I never thought I’d make it this far. As in, still be alive. I could hardly see beyond the next day, and that sort of thinking just doesn’t change overnight. I don’t know if it ever does. Have you ever stopped feeling that way, like your days are numbered?” His expression changes slightly to one of pleading.

“I don’t know,” Harry starts. “For me, with Voldemort gone, I felt like I could breathe again. I understand it’s different for you. I don’t like to think about it.”

“Nobody likes to, Potter. But can’t you understand where I’m coming from at all? I don’t want the sort of… debt that comes with belonging to someone. And I never thought I’d be spending my life with you, of all people.”

“So you feel like you’ll owe me a debt? By being with me? That’s what a partnership is to you?” Harry is so flustered, he can hardly contain his outrage. “What sort of fucked up concept of family is that?”

The worst bit of all is that this feels like a call back to his time with the Dursleys. Harry swore he would never allow himself to be painted as a burden again, and he never expected Draco to be a catalyst for these feelings.

“Listen to me, it’s for your benefit too. I can’t tell you the amount of time I spent wishing I could escape the sins of my family; their belief systems, their expectations. Think of my hideous aunt and uncle. Think of the things I had to do for the sake of family. I never had a choice. I want you to have a choice.” Draco shakes his head as if pushing these thoughts farther away. 

“If I wanted the chance to _escape_ , I would have just fucked that guy,” Harry growls, fire in his eyes. “But if you want an escape from this, Malfoy, be my guest. You have a choice now.” 

**“** Harry, what if, just once, you met this with understanding instead of losing your goddamn mind? Couldn’t you just try to understand that I’d never hurt you? Never, not intentionally. I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. I have every intention of being with you as long as you’ll have me. What if that was enough?” Draco looks deeply hurt, and it’s such a rarity to see his features take on this shape that Harry softens slightly.

“You know, I realize when everything happened with my father, you showed up for me a way I didn’t think anybody could. And when he passed, the freedom, the guilt, the deep, all-consuming sorrow I felt… I thought it might swallow me. But you kept me alive. What if I promised to do the same when the time comes? What if that commitment was enough?”

Tears burn in his eyes, but Harry isn’t quite sure it _is_ enough. “My aunt and uncle, they - they treated it like caring for me was a hardship, like I was a debt they had to pay off. I know they thought I was. I can’t do that again, Draco. I can’t stand the thought of you seeing me that way. Family’s not a burden. Love’s not a burden.”

Draco’s eyes widen at this admission. Harry had all but taken a vow to never speak of the Dursleys, and it becomes all too clear why. 

“No, no you’re right. Merlin, you’re right.” He grabs Harry’s face and nestles it into his chest. “I suppose I’ve got a lot to work through with this.” A sharp intake of breath. “Harry, can you just take it for what it is then? That I’m not in a good place for it just yet? That it doesn’t mean I never will be.”

“You seemed pretty certain yesterday, Draco. You’re asking me to wait for you?”

“I’m asking you to think about it. I’m asking you, broken man to broken man, to wait and see if I can put myself back together. Please.”

Harry allows the tears to escape from his eyes then, letting Draco wipe them away and hold him. He would wait forever if Draco needed him to, he realizes. He just hopes he doesn’t have to wait that long.


	7. The Sitting Room Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present.

**The Sitting Room Again**

Draco returns as dusk is settling in, and Harry hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s poured over countless questions and compromises, trying to imagine what his new normal might be like, clinging desperately to the hope that nothing will change. He’s moved past hurt into something more visceral.

Draco treads in gently and Harry hardly notices. He’s been playing Twin Shadow’s “Saturdays” loudly on repeat, howling along until his voice is raw. Backed by a guitar reminiscent of Tears for Fears, he laments a lifetime of Saturdays he’s let slip away from him. He’s only managed to make more of a mess in the living room, throwing open boxes and trying to understand where it all went wrong. He’s got Draco’s green jumper in his lap and brings it up to his face. He’d probably use it to muffle a scream if he’d had anything left in him.

“What’s happened here?” Draco asks, startling Harry deeply, and turning off the music with a flick of a wrist. 

“Don’t you remember, Draco? Don’t you remember anything - any of this? Look at all of these pictures. I can’t stop looking at them.” Harry feels a fresh resurgence of tears he was sure were long gone, and he feels quite literally insane.

“Potter, you’re going to go mad doing this. Of course I remember. I remember everything.” He kneels down on the floor next to Harry, fingers tenderly tracing the photograph of a beach sunset. 

“Then why are you leaving?” 

“Why haven’t you tried to stop me?” Draco asks, no malice in his voice. Harry is stung into silence. “Probably because you know it’s for the best. It’s hard to accept when things are over, especially for you.”

“It’s not really over, is it?” Harry moans, wiping his face on his sleeve. Draco sighs.

“We’ve gone over this so many times. We just haven’t been on the same page about anything lately. We’ve hardly had a peaceful minute in the last year; I’m not sure if I’ve seen you happy in the last six months. I haven’t given you what you want.” He counts these things on his fingers, making Harry flinch. Draco pauses to consider his next move, unsure he should continue to speak. “Look, about a month ago I heard you talking with Granger and Weasley in the backyard about being Rose and Hugo’s Godfather. You were saying you wanted to, but it’d be best if-” his voice cracks and he pauses. “I knew I was denying you something you’d wanted forever, I could hear it in your voice. You’ve never had a family in the way you’d imagined. I couldn’t keep my promise to you, and I knew I couldn’t stand in your way any longer.”

Harry can admit, begrudgingly, Draco is right on some level. He never meant Draco to hear his conversation with Ron and Hermione, and it _had_ been painful for him. But he’s always known loving Draco meant challenging what he thought he’d wanted, defying ideals, and following gut feelings. True, he _had_ longed for a family in the traditional sense, but his world makes sense with Draco. He can’t imagine it any other way.

“That’s really what this is about? You think I need any of that? You’re right, we _have_ gone over this so many times. I’ve told you, if I’ve been unhappy it’s because of anything but you.” He steels himself and plows forward. “Listen, I’ve been debating leaving the Ministry; they’ve offered me a position at Hogwarts.”

Draco looks stung. “And you didn’t tell me this because?”

“I’ve been sitting with it a while because it would mean moving, and… I didn’t want to leave you. Don’t want to leave you. You don’t exactly have the happiest memories of the castle.”

“Neither do you,” Draco reminds him sharply.

“No,” Harry concedes. “But what if this is the chance to start something new? What if these are the children I’m meant to have, and we’re the family we’ve chosen and created? What if that’s enough?” he asks earnestly, echoing conversations of years past.

“Harry, I love you. I love you so much. But… no. You’re going to be an incredible professor, and I can’t hold you back anymore. I have to let you go.” Tears stream down Draco’s face and Harry thinks he’s never seen him so miserable. At that moment, he feels so bereft all he can do is watch as Draco leaves their home.

When he wakes up in the morning, Draco’s things are gone, the living room returned to its usual state. Unsure of what else to do, he pens two letters: one to Minerva McGonagall accepting the position, the other to Head Auror Dolan announcing his resignation. If Draco felt so strongly that he had to leave for Harry to have the life he deserves, he won’t waste another minute.


	8. A Castle in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new beginning?

**A Castle in the Snow**

The hallowed grounds of his alma mater have been a surprising comfort to Harry. No longer do the echoes in the halls harken back to horrors for him; no longer do the solid walls give way to explosions when he closes his eyes. This place has become home again, and he is rebuilding himself as well, brick by brick.

His first few weeks as the DADA professor are a little shaky, and he finds he can hardly remember his students’ names, let alone figure out how to best teach them. Thankfully, Neville comes to his rescue often, sharing whatever tricks of the trade he’s learned in his short time as a professor. He’s helped Harry to find his footing again, letting him fall apart when he needs, and putting him back together again when he’s ready. Neville is truly one of the best men and friends Harry will ever know, and he believes this to his core.

With time, it also becomes clear that Harry is a natural, and he falls into an easy rhythm with his classes. It seems he’s well-liked by both students and staff, and by the time fall term comes to a close, he receives more Christmas cards than he’s ever gotten in his life. He reads them over with a swelling, swooping pride that nestles into his chest and purrs. He’s managed to figure out life on his own as well, though he often feels a pang and a pull towards his “old life.”

Bidding the last of the students farewell for the holidays, Harry notes with child-like pleasure that snow has started to fall gently outside. He gathers up his papers on the desk in a haphazard fashion, shoving them into his brown leather briefcase (emblazoned with Professor H.J. Potter, a gift from Ron and Hermione), and crosses the room to the narrow window. Watching the snow swirl and blanket the ground, Harry feels a deep and quiet peace settle within him. Lifting his hand to the pane and resting his forehead against the glass, he closes his eyes for a brief second.

“Professor Potter? I’m sorry to bother you,” a small voice echoes in the empty classroom. “It’s just, I think there’s someone here to see you.”

Harry turns and smiles at the first year, Rory Clements. “No problem, Rory, thank you. Send them in - and happy holidays!”

The boy squeaks his thanks as he bounces out of the door and relays the message of admittance to the person in the hallway.

And then Harry’s heart nearly stops.

Sauntering through the archway looking sheepish is one Draco Malfoy, holding a basket of citrus fruit, and looking devastatingly handsome.

“Professor,” he says kindly.

“Draco. What are you doing here?” Harry is flabbergasted, but he can’t deny the fluttering in his heart and stomach. It’s been six months since he’s seen Draco, and the encounter almost steals his breath entirely.

Draco doesn’t respond immediately, instead, he crosses over to the window and peers out into the expanse. The two men stand together silently, fingers barely touching, hearts beating in their ears.

“I was wondering… if you’ve any plans for Christmas?” Draco sets the basket down, still staring out the window.

“Not as such,” Harry answers truthfully. He’d actually planned on staying at the castle over break, catching up on all of the grading he could never seem to get ahead of.

“Longbottom told me that you haven’t- that you haven’t been seeing anyone. Is he- is he correct?” In a most uncharacteristic fashion, Draco trips over his words, and his cheeks flush with color.

“You’ve been talking to Neville? Merlin, Draco, it’s only been six months. There’s no way. There’s no one else.”

“No one else?” Draco breathes. “Harry, I-”

“Why are you here, Draco? Please just tell me.” Harry turns and stares at Draco beseechingly.

“Potter. Harry. I can’t bear another day, let alone holiday, without you,” Draco confesses. “That I’ve let six months go by without telling you that I want to spend every day with you for the rest of my life proves that I’m an unforgivable bastard. But I had to tell you that I’ve made the biggest mistake in my life walking away from what we had. I was dragging my feet, and I was frightened, and I was operating under some sort of delusion that I could protect you. I was trying to be selfless because I know your life is probably much better without me, but we all know that I’m not selfless. Let’s just be honest. And I want you. My pride is out the window at this point, so damn it all. I want you more than anything.”

For a moment, Harry can hardly believe what has just transpired and he can only gaze on in incredulity. He turns back to the snow to ground himself.

“What does this mean then, Draco?” His question is tentative, unsure he truly wants to hear the answer.

“This means if you’ll have me, I’ll never leave you again. I’m yours, forever - whatever you want that to mean.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Harry can see that Draco’s eyes are wide even in his periphery, and he nods.

“Yes I’ll have you,” he answers, turning to face the other man, chest heaving with affection. “There was never any question for me, Draco. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late then, love.”

And then the room is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was lightly inspired by "The Ballad of Love & Hate" by the Avett Brothers, "Supercut" by Lorde, and "Saturdays" by Twin Shadow, and have thus listened to these songs probably more than 100 times while writing this short and sweet little thing. I really wrote this for no other reason than my own enjoyment, but in the process I ended up experiencing and working through a major loss/life event while doing so. You have all my gratitude for reading.


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